garden of the best house in this place, a
British ensign suffices to call up pleasant
visions of a consul, who is a consul indeed.
A heap of something on the hill—at first
sight resembling an overturned cartload of
hampers—is pronounced, after telescopic
examination, to be a Turkish battery, and
induces complacent reflections touching the
magnanimity of the allies. The minarets,
with their so-called gracefulness (to speak
the truth, they are neither more nor less
graceful than a candle and extinguisher),
have a certain fitness where they stand;
and the blue mountains in the distance
form a background always imposing. The
clearness of an atmosphere which smoke has
not defiled alone constitutes a beauty in the
eyes of an English traveller. On shore
the illusion vanishes; to be superseded
by a reality of tumble-down buildings,
filthy streets, indescribable odours, mangy
curs, and dirty passers-by. Reminiscences
of last night's garlic issue freely from the
natives; fumes of rancid butter issue from
the cook shops; and, for a nose educated
out of Turkey, it is desirable to escape from
the busy haunts of men with the smallest
possible delay. A friend settled in the place
undertook to ride with me into the interior
on the morrow; and, with ready courtesy,
the officials of the British Land Transport
Corps furnished me with a horse. I lost no
time in commencing my solitary investigations.

Behind the Greek suburb, occupying the
western half of the peninsula is an ancient
cemetery, in which new tombstones are
strangely mingled with pillars of great
antiquity. They resemble the shafts of columns
without either base or capital, and bear
no inscription. These pillars are usually
about three feet high, and nine inches in
diameter; many are still erect, many
overthrown or broken. The modern tombs
of the men were often surmounted by a
sculptured fez and tapel, coloured, as heralds
would say, proper, and replacing the turban,
wrought in coarsest stone. Here and there,
the Turkish inscription was accompanied by
a drooping flower, left, like the letters, in
relief upon the surface, and indicating the
burial-place of an unmarried woman. Paths
wound through the cemetery in various
directions; fig-trees flourished within its
bounds; and, near one of these by the side
of a little hollow, a bright clear rill bubbled
from the ground, and found its way to the sea
over a course which its own waters had worn
down to the rock. Around this channel the
grass was of a deeper verdure, and afforded a
pleasing contrast to the parched hill, which
there began its ascent. Beside the stream,
a group of people were collected round some
object that seemed to be of common interest;
and I rode towards them to ascertain its
nature.

My curiosity was rewarded by finding
seven old men seated in a circle on the
ground, apparently under the guidance or
chairmanship of one younger man, whose
green robes and head-gear denoted that
he was possessed of especial sanctity, and
was either a reputed descendant of the
prophet, or, at least, was born on the
Mahometan sabbath. Each old man wore upon
the crown of his turban a scrap of paper,
inscribed with characters from the Koran;
each had at his feet a white handkerchief
spread upon the ground, containing a heap
of pebbles; and, in the centre of the circle,
was a larger heap that seemed common
to all, and was constantly replenished by
children, who came running with fresh
handfuls of stones from the neighbouring beach.
Each old man filled his right hand with
pebbles from the central heap; and, from
this handful, put a single one into his mouth,
spat it into his left hand, threw it into his
handkerchief, and continued this action with
the greatest possible rapidity—refilling his
right hand whenever necessary, and
apparently keeping silent count of the number
that passed through his mouth. Outside the
circle stood a scribe, with reed inkhorn, and
a paper bearing seven columns of figures.
Whenever one of the old men called out
"Yuz" (a hundred), the scribe made an
entry in the proper place. The scene was
inexpressibly curious. Approaching an old
Turk who stood on the outskirts of the
little crowd, I adjured him to tell me how
these old men were employed, and in
what way they desired that Allah should
prosper their undertakings. With a
courteous gravity that did not condescend to
notice my probable mutilation of his native
tongue, the old man replied that Allah
had withheld rain for seven weeks, and that
the earth was parched for lack of water.
Our fathers, he continued, are counting over
seventy thousand and seven pebbles; after
which, they will offer up certain prayers;
and then, if the tale of stones be correct,
Allah would send rain. He added that, to
insure exactness, it was desirable to avoid
conversation that might disturb the counting,
and this I received as a hint to continue my
ride—reckoning, as I did so, that from beginning
to end the old men would be fully five
and a half hours at their patriotic labours.
I had not, however, proceeded more than a
hundred yards up the hill, and had barely
finished my calculation, when loud howls and
shouts reached me from below; and I beheld
the pebble-counters heading a procession back
to the town. Whether the shouts were the
prayers already mentioned, I know not; but
they were so dolorous as to suggest that an
error had been discovered, and that some
unlucky old man had gone on counting, from
the force of habit, until he had raised the
aggregate number to seventy thousand and
eight, and had so broken the spell. At all
events, the much-needed showers were delayed,